| BOOK TWO | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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It was still dark when I woke with a start, heavy dread pooled in my stomach for those unquenched Suits. Great, I am such an awful hostess. I promised orange juice and forgot to deliver.
Bolting upright, whipping unruly hair from my face, I ripped the blanket aside, hearing Liam's sleepy groan as I shifted. I blindly searched for a discarded T-shirt on the floor, dressed amidst haphazardness, brushed my teeth, and then quietly crept out of the master bedroom.
Bare feet teetering across the cold marble floor, I rushed to the kitchen—which had the semblance of a rebellious young adults student accommodation; empty alcohol bottles, half-eaten produce, dispensed drugs and a surplus supply of condom packets—and opened the fridge. I selected a medley of flavoursome juices and began pouring chilled glasses, arranging them on a tray.
Leftover appetisers cluttered the counters. I cleared a space on the stonework island, scrubbed alcohol stains with disinfectant and hunted the cupboards for edible pastries. I found a loaf of bread, checked the date first, popped slices into the toaster. I am not the best cook, far from it, but buttery toast, jams and marmalade portion packs, packaged croissants and microwaved breakfast tartlets, I execute.
I opened the balcony doors to generate a cool breeze. Hopefully, that morning air can eliminate bad odours. God, what is that awful smell? A mixture of old man's flatulence, fetid sweat, rubber latex, lube and other body fluids.
My nose twitched in repugnance. I used a fork to lift a lace thong from the coffee machine and tossed both items straight in the bin, a sordid delineation of the Suits' vacuous and meaningless drunken orgies, I imagine.
Pouring myself a coffee, I add a splash of milk and inspect the aftermath of last night's carnage. It wasn't a wild night, even though the penthouse's disordered, diabolical state suggests otherwise, but understanding the nature or purpose of Liam's "celebration" still puzzled me. He's comfortable being in the public eye, so it's quite normal for him to withstand an assemblage of acquaintances or close friends. However, It's unorthodox for him to invite people to his private home.
I sipped coffee with permanent furrowed eyebrows.
Last night, I was too excited to spend time with Liam, so I hadn't considered the unusualness of his event.
What are you up to, Mr Warren?
The toaster popped. I stockpiled the plates, organised the Suits' breakfast onto a tray and carried edible deliciousness to the lobby.
"Morning," I chimed, using my back to hold the door open. "I didn't forget about you," I fibbed, and the suited, stoic men stared at me, nonplussed and speechless. "Well, come and eat."
Exchanging puzzled glances, the men briefly abandoned their posts and thanked me for the cold drinks. "Can one of you grab the other tray inside the kitchen?" I asked, and a lean male slipped past me. "Take as much as you want, guys. You can grab a coffee, too."
